


Savoury

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Ficlet, Hand & Finger Kink, Star Trek: Dwellers in the Crucible - Margaret Wander Bonanno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7148156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleante tempts T’Shael to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savoury

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a ficlet for [Dwellers in the Crucible](http://startrekreviews.tumblr.com/post/145621742329/tos-novel-25-dwellers-in-the-crucible), an amazing TOS book with borderline lesbian Spirk.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“And unlike _some_ people,” Cleante reasons, “I need sleep.”

T’Shael recites simply, “You may sleep,” without so much as a glance over her shoulder. She stares fixedly down at the week’s worth of vegetables she’s been chopping for the better part of an hour, always one to be prepared. But they have a seminar tomorrow morning, and the middle of the night is no time for chores. 

“I want you to come with me,” Cleante insists, like it isn’t obvious.

“As you have correctly surmised, I do not require the same amount of sleep.” 

“But I _want_ you there.” 

“I apologize for any inconvenience I have caused you”—which is more than most Vulcans would admit—“but we will require provisions if we are to make our trip as scheduled, and I believe this work to be prudent.”

T’Shael sweeps the sliced carrots off her chopping board and into another container, pressing the lid closed. Their latest trip is to an obscure, vaguely-religious retreat that focuses on natural wellness and disallows the use of Synthesized foods. Unlike most visitors, T’Shael isn’t willing to lie about the food they bring. But they have a week to do it, and Cleante really does sleep better with T’Shael by her side. Maybe it’s from all the unsafe nights they spent in captivity—her therapist says it’s a reasonable reaction to her trauma—but it’s also partly their bond; Cleante always feels more _complete_ when her _t’hy’la_ ’s in her arms.

Unfortunately, that _t’hy’la_ is one of the most stubborn people she’s ever met. So she waits in the kitchen doorway, debating whether it would be best to surrender or go sulk at the table, inevitably earning T’Shael’s concern and her desired outcome. She’s taken one step forward when she conceives a better plan, mind flittering to her latest letter from their once-saviors. She imagines many people write to the illustrious Captain Kirk, but few of them can offer as good a reason as Cleante to write back: their common ground of frustratingly _Vulcan_ relationships.

Kirk was all too happy to mention in yesterday’s message a technique his beloved first officer rather enjoys. And Vulcans are nothing if not consistent.

So Cleante drifts across the floor, until she’s flattening right into T’Shael’s rod-straight back, her arms coming to wrap loosely around T’Shael’s sides. T’Shael freezes with the knife halfway down a stick of celery. Cleante’s chin hooks over T’Shael’s shoulder, T’Shael’s dark hair tickling her cheek. There was a time when Cleante thought she’d never crave intimacy again, and times before and after she thought she’d only find relief in the arms of men. But touching T’Shael always feels wildly _right_. Their skin sparks wherever they touch, like an electric charge that trails tingling _bliss_ in its wake. Their bond is stronger than it’s ever been. Cleante clutches tighter to T’Shael’s waist and lifts two clasped-together fingers to the shell of T’Shael’s pointed ear. The ruby earring she once wore is long since gone. Cleante gently strokes along T’Shael’s tip, purring huskily into her ear, “Put down the knife, my love.”

T’Shael says firmly, “I will not be tempted,” but she does as she’s told. She’s never been very good at resisting terms of endearment and touches to her ear, now that they’re bonded and she’s let go of her shame. Cleante kisses the back of T’Shael’s lobe for a reward.

Then she releases T’Shael’s waist to run along her arm and take hold of her wrist, lifting it up. T’Shael looks back to watch with a flat expression—and curious fascination under it, which Cleante can now read her well enough to see—as Cleante brings T’Shael’s delicate hand to her mouth to kiss.

The first press of her lips to T’Shael’s palm is soft, but lingering, and she trails a string of others up one finger, around to the nail, where she opens her mouth and lets her tongue flick out against it. T’Shael shivers—the first sign that it’s worth it. Through every place they touch, Cleante can _feel_ T’Shael’s interest spiking. Cleante parts her lips wider to gently envelop T’Shael’s fingertip. Swallowing the thin digit into her mouth, Cleante slowly slides down to the knuckle and sucks around it. T’Shael’s breath hitches. Cleante has to fight to keep the smirk off her face—Kirk’s aided her once again.

When Cleante slides off, leaving T’Shael’s index finger wet and glistening, Cleante nudges the middle finger closer with her tongue before T’Shael can regain enough sense to pull away. Cleante then sucks both into her mouth at once, lets her eyes fall closed, leans forward to make a show of impaling herself completely, and _moans_ around her prize. T’Shael’s whole body is wracked with a shiver, and a sharp stab of _want_ sizzles through their bond, followed swiftly by shame, as it always does when they try something new and _dirty_. As always, Cleante will coax T’Shael out of that rush to self-detriment. T’Shael is _wondrous_ , and she deserves all the guiltless pleasure Cleante can give her.

This time, there’s a not-so-ulterior motive. Cleante slips away from T’Shael’s fingers, only to gently lap at her thumb, then lick back across her palm, over the wrinkled lifeline their species have in common. When her eyes flicker to T’Shael’s, she sees just how cloudy T’Shael’s have become.

Cleante brings a second set of fingers to T’Shael’s hand, both now cradling it, so much _contact_ in one, hyper-sensitive place. Licking across, Cleante lavishes T’Shael’s pinky and envelops it, tasting it while their eyes are locked.

T’Shael finally breaks, rasping, “Cleante...”

Cleante sucks so hard that T’Shael’s eyes practically roll back in her head. But Cleante does pull off, needing her voice, and instead nuzzles into T’Shael’s green-flushed hand. Letting all her _lust_ pour through into her voice, Cleante purrs, “Your poor hands must be tired, my _t’hy’la_. Come to bed with me, and I’ll worship them like they deserve...”

T’Shael opens her mouth, only to swallow, and try again, “That is not sleep.”

“I’ll sleep after I’ve had you soak my hand as much as I’m wetting yours, and you’re crying out my name and begging me to lie with you.”

T’Shael very rarely cries out. But it has happened, and when she’s quiet in bed, she’s loud through their connection. And for a species that claims to only need love-making once ever seven years, she grows wet remarkably easily when Cleante works her right.

She hesitates now, then sighs with defeat. Her hand lifts to softly stroke Cleante’s cheek, and she asks, “May I at least put these away?”

Cleante delights in her victory, but does acquiesce, “You can. ...With one hand.” The other, Cleante resumes tasting, leaving T’Shael to writhe in her grasp and brokenly try to clean up their ever-filthier kitchen.


End file.
